The last text I got from Carson said Belknap had gone home without the Fantin. She’s not in her room. When it’s after hours and she’s not in her room, she’s at the bar in Mio.
I slide onto the stool next to hers, flag the bartender and order a vodka. I feel like shit, but I’m not going to try to get hammered, not at €22 a pour.
“Didn’t think I’d see you ‘til tomorrow,” Carson says to her glass.
“I didn’t either.”
“What happened? Couldn’t get it up?”
“Fuck you.” I rub my eyes with my fingertips.
“Ohhhh, that’s embarrassing.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“She still upstairs?”
“I sent her home.”
The temperature goes arctic next to me. “You fuck her and throw her out? Asshole.”
“I sent her home after dinner.”
No response. I glance her way and find her giving me a puzzled scowl, like I started speaking Klingon and she’s trying to decode it.
“I couldn’t do it.” Where’s my drink, damnit? “I couldn’t scam her into bed. God knows I wanted to. But she said the only thing she expected is that I wouldn’t lie, and I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be another shitty guy hustling her.”
“What did you tell her?”
My drink arrives. I knock the middle-grade vodka down my throat in two tries. It doesn’t help. Carson was right; I feel like an asshole. Or an idiot. Or both.
“I told her…” I can still see the look on Gianna’s face. I can’t tell if she was astonished or pissed off. “I told her there’s nothing I’d rather do than be closer to her, but we need to think straight until the deal’s done and we should keep it just business ‘til then.”
But… do I say the wrong thing? Do I offend you?
No, no, no. Gianna, you’re beautiful and smart and ambitious and you have a sense of humor and I’d love to pack you up and take you home to meet Mom. Really. But we’re going to have to do some hard things over the next few days and I… When we’re done with Lorenzoni and you’ve got the money for your gallery, I want to see how you and I are together. I should’ve said something earlier, I know, I’m sorry. But tonight’s been so great, I couldn’t spoil it…
“Then I had the car take her home.” I perch my elbows on the counter and push my eyes into the heels of my hands. “Go ahead, give me shit. Tell me what a stupid ass I am.”
Carson doesn’t say anything for a long time. I hear footsteps approach on the other side of the bar, then retreat, then return. A glass clunks against the marble. When I open my eyes, I see another drink in front of me.
Carson’s got her chin on her folded hands. She’s looking at me very seriously. “Sorry about before. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Neither did I.”
“Doing the right thing really sucks, eh?” She reaches over and gives my forearm a pat. I’d be less shocked if she whomped me with her baton. “She burned as a source?”
I shrug. “I texted her while I was coming back here. Basically, ‘Are we okay?’ She hasn’t answered yet.”
“Give her time. She’s probably amazed she still has her clothes on.”
I take my second drink a lot slower. The bar’s very slick: lots of marble and obscure glass, polished amber-colored discs hanging from the ceiling to diffuse the gentle light. The twin flat-screens at the end of the room are playing soccer and news.
“Angelo was there. He invited us to Morrone’s place to look at Dad’s art, maybe buy some.” I lay out Gianna’s explanation of her relationship with Angelo.
Carson’s eyebrows arch like an angry cat’s back. “Believe her?”
“It sounds reasonable. As long as Morrone’s got art in storage there, they’ve gotta talk to somebody. And she gave me Belknap’s files, so it doesn’t look like she’s playing on his team.”
She stares into her glass, working her jaw. After a while, she shrugs. “I’ll trust you on this. You know the players and the game.”
We nurse our drinks and watch little people run around a big green playing field. The weather on the next stool slowly warms up. Time to come clean. “I have another problem.”
“Blue balls? Can’t help you.” At least she says it with a cockeyed smile.
“No, not that.” Well, that’s a problem too. “My PO thinks I’m coming home tomorrow.”
Carson squints at me like I’m out of focus. “Where’s he think you are?”
“New York City. Interviewing. I told him I got a little freelance work, but that’s supposed to be done by now. I guess I can invent some more of that, but I don’t know how long I can keep stringing him along before he wonders why I can’t take this work online.”
“What’s he like?”
“Len? He’s a really good guy. He cuts me a lot of slack because I never hassle him. I call when I’m supposed to, I come in right away when he asks, I keep out of trouble.”
“Until now,” Carson says.
“Yeah. I think he really wants me to succeed. He’s tired of having so many of his probies violate out. He was really supportive about my ‘trip to New York.’ I don’t want to fuck this up.”
Carson nods and nurses her scotch. “Got an idea. Let’s go upstairs.”
“Hello, Len? It’s Matt.”
My phone’s on speaker. I can hear office sounds in the background. “Matt? It’s Thursday. Why’re you calling today? You’re back tomorrow, yeah?”
I glance across the table at Carson, who’s perched on the suite’s banquette. I’m not sure how much I like this plan of hers, but it’s better than anything I’ve come up with so far.
“Um… I need to talk to you about that. I need to stick around here another few days.”
“You got more work? You get a job?” You’d never guess from his Harvey Fierstein voice that Len’s only about five-nine and looks like a bald Sam Waterston. He’s also some kind of super-black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Another reason not to mess with him.
“Yeah, a little more freelance, from the same place. But, well… I haven’t been completely straight with you. I haven’t been at the Y for a few days now.”
More background noise. “I don’t expect this from you.” Shit. That feels the same as hearing Dad say son, I’m disappointed in you. “Where are you?”
“In Brooklyn. I, um…” Carson spins a wheel with her index finger: hurry up. I wave her off. “I met somebody. I’m staying with her.” Now’s when we find out if Len’s going to come unglued, or if he’s going to ask to be best man at the wedding.
“Well, shit hot, son. New York women, huh? Tell me about her.”
I let out a little sigh: I’m not dead yet. I tell him about how I met Lida (the name Carson fed me) at a Midtown bar after my last interview on day three of my trip. Drinks turned into dinner and one thing led to another. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. We didn’t know if it’d work out, and I was afraid of jinxing it. Sorry.”
“Well, you sure as hell should’ve told—”
“Would you like to talk to her?”
It takes Len a few seconds to think on this. “Yeah. She there?”
“Hold on.” I mute and look up at Carson, who’s leaning toward the phone. I’m trusting her way more than I’m comfortable with. But she needs me so she can finish her project, right? She doesn’t want to violate me out… right? “Please be careful.”
“No worries.” She un-mutes and sweeps up the phone at the same time. I can’t hear Len’s side of the conversation, which doesn’t exactly build up my confidence. “Hiya, Mr. Samuelson? Say, are you a ‘mister’ or ‘officer’? Whadda I call ya?” She’s put on enough of a Brooklyn accent to sell it but not enough to sound like a cartoon. It’s perfect.
For the next ten minutes, I witness one of the best cons I’ve seen in years. She gives him a full name (Lida Adrikovna Rodnina) and a Brooklyn address and 917 phone number without hesitating an instant. She talks about our fictional relationship like it’s a pleasant surprise for her, too. There’s even some tenderness in her voice when she says, “I know what he’s done, but he’s a good guy, ya know? Treats me right.” She shares a couple laughs with Len—I’ve never heard her laugh before. And her character and accent are so right-on, I can see her twirling her hair around her finger if she had longer hair.
Carson wraps up with a tone like she’s chatting with her favorite uncle instead of my probation officer. She hands me the phone with the speaker turned back on, then wanders off to fix herself a drink from my minibar.
“Len? What do you think?”
“I like her. I gotta check her out, but I like her. Sounds like she could kick your ass if you need it.” That’s for sure. “You planning to move back there? I can transfer your jacket to Eastern District if you are. Could be good for you, start over fresh.”
Seriously? It’s that easy? I should’ve done this days ago. Of course, days ago Carson might’ve put me back in the pen just because she could. “I don’t know yet. Lida’s talking about maybe moving out to L.A. We’re still just figuring this out. I’m thinking another week or so? Then we’ll know one way or another. Is that okay?”
He takes a loud, deep breath. Say yes… “Yeah, I can do that. Now I know where you are.” He growls out the last three words to make his point. “Same schedule as before. Call Monday, Wednesday, Friday, tell me what’s going on. Got it?”
After Len hangs up, Carson wanders back into the suite’s sitting room, drink in hand. “You’re clear?”
“Yeah. Thanks a million, you were amazing. Who’s Lida Rodnina?”
She shrugs. “Old cover from Allyson’s guy.”
“And what’ll Len find when he checks up on her?”
“Old addresses, work history, summary possession rap twelve-thirteen years back. She’ll check out.” She polishes off her drink, sets the glass on the table, then squeezes my shoulder on her way out. “If you’d fucked the Italian girl, I’d’ve told you to get her to help you. But you did the stand-up thing. Maybe there’s hope. Get some sleep.” She gently closes the door behind her.